


Fraternization

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Apocalypses, Fraternization, Light-Hearted, Multi, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), here we go again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 05:14:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19419193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: The problem with the Apocalypse (take one), was marooning Aziraphale and Crowley in the first place. They got too close to each other. They won't make the same mistake for take two.





	Fraternization

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick ficlet, based on TV show characterisation and events.

“Sssso we're in agreement?”

Michael looks distinctly uncomfortable at the very proposition – agreement! With a demon! - but nods sharply to Beelzebub. “Only way to set things right,” she cedes. The spectre of Aziraphale's betrayal looms large in her mind. With celestial patience, she resists the urge to swat at the flies humming around her head. “Two by two. Very divine,” she realises, brightening slightly.

“Oh yessss, the divine massss murder that wazzz the Flood,” Beelzebub smirks.

The two stare at each other across the Formica table. Neither had wanted to meet at a disadvantage, which had led to this: an all too dismal rendezvous at an earthly greasy spoon, just off Clerkenwell Road, London. On one side is a church1. On the other, a brothel2. Inside, both beings sit behind cups of tea, ordered for appearances and left untouched. Even Beelzebub had wrinkled her nose at the state of the mug.

“I suppose I ought to-” Michael finds herself gesturing over her shoulder with a thumb, and shivers at the humanity of the action. Beelzebub's eyes widen. They've been down here too long. Their business is concluded, so no reason to drag things out.

A second later, nothing moves but steam, rising from still-hot tea3.

–

_Thirty-five years later_

“AZIRAPHALE.”

The blonde angel looks up from his book with a gasp. He'd been on the edge of a doze – a few decades practice and he'd just about got the hang of sleep – and now two angels were trampling Crowley's begonias.

“Oh.” He looks sadly at the crushed petals. “Oh dear, you seem to be-” he gestures at the poor plants, and both angels look at their feet before doing absolutely nothing to correct the situation. He doesn't recognise either of them; they feel young, most likely spawned since he left Heaven to attend to the Garden. One is dressed in jeans, trainers and a hoodie, clothing at least a few decades out of style and out of place on the body he's inhabiting. The other, lanky and with terrible posture, wears a suit that hangs as if it once belonged to his father. Aziraphale can't quite suppress a shudder at the affront to tailoring. It is this angel that speaks again.

“THIRTY-FIVE YEARS, AZIRAPHALE.”

“There's no need to shout.” He marks his place in the book, closes it, and draws himself up from the sun-lounger to his full height. Both new angels have a good few inches on him. Luckily, he's used to intimidating Crowley when the situation calls for it4, and has mastered the art of glaring upwards. “What appears to be the issue, uh...?”

They ignore his polite query for an introduction. The lanky one grabs the other by the scruff of the neck – or more likely, the hood of his top, and shakes. “I have been stationed-”

“-stuck,” interjects the hoodie-

“With this one for THIRTY-FIVE YEARS.”

Far from taking affront, at either the manhandling or the insinuation, the hoodie angel glowers at Aziraphale.

“I'm... sorry?” he tries.

“You had to go get all shacked up with that demon-”

A demon Aziraphale catches sight of in the distance, rangy black-clad figure striding down the lane towards the cottage. Two other figures scurry after him.

“-and now, finally I get my big promotion – Angel on Earth! Guider of Men! - and it's a _partner duty,_ ” he spits. 

Aziraphale drags his gaze back to the couple in front of him. “You're stationed together?”

“We haven't left each other's side for-”

“Thirty five years,” Aziraphale murmurs, interrupting the hoodie. “Yes, I can see how that might be annoying.”5 He pauses, and purses his lips. “What... were you hoping I might do about it?”

The two angels exchange glances. It is clear they haven't thought this far ahead.

“You might find you grow to lov-” at twin glares he breaks off. “Or not.”

“Angel!” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes.

“Why do you have angels in the front garden, destroying my flowerbeds?” Crowley steps right up to Aziraphale, close enough for comfort6.

Aziraphale twines one arm around his waist. “Are those demons following you?” he asks.

“Can't quite seem to shake them.”

Aziraphale appraises the demons. Both are dressed flashily, one modern, all silver and jute, one harking back to the look Crowley used to favour back in the Apocalypse days. The first has a shock of black hair, wrestled into an unruly plait that drapes down her back. The second sports scales criss-crossing her scalp, like an intricate tattoo, but just a touch too lifelike. 

“This is turning into quite a party,” Aziraphale states, clapping his hands together. “I have some home-made elderflower cordial, let me just grab that-”. Unwilling to leave the two sides squaring off, he springs for a minor miracle and a tray of cool glasses appears in one hand. “Everyone, take a glass.” He shoves it under one nose, then another. The two angels take their drinks quickly, and Crowley follows suit with an eye roll. The two demons take more convincing, but eventually grasp a glass each, dewy with condensation in the summer sun.

“And now let's all take a seat-”

With another eye roll, and a sigh for good measure, Crowley snaps his fingers and five extra loungers appear. 

“Why don't we start with introductions?” Aziraphale asks brightly.

–

_Fifty years later_

“I thought we'd ssssolved it that time.” Beelzebub twirls a straw through her bright pink cocktail, pulling it out and sucking on the end. _Much_ better than scummy tea.

“I'm not sure how it happened again,” Michael agrees, wincing a little as she shots a tequila, sucking on a lemon afterwards. Beelzebub nudges the salt shaker over. In one small defiance of protocol, the angel always returns to salt after a shot. Beelzebub had asked her once. The answer had been a little slurred, but there was something in there about it being a purifier.

“Will they try again, do you think?” 

Michael licks salt from the back of her hand. Beelzebub watches, then slurps ice through her straw, obnoxiously.

“Suppose.” The angel is getting morose. She always does after tequila. Beelzebub waves down a waiter, who brings tap water and a bottle of white wine. 

“We juzzzzt need to keep a better eye on them,” Beelzebub reasons. “Regular check inzzz.”

“Make sure there's no... _fraternization_ ,” Michael agrees. 

“Right.” Beelzebub pours them both a glass of wine, but waits for Michael to down her water before she pushes a glass over. “Thatzzzz where they're all going wrong.”

Michael nods, and holds up her glass. “Cheers,” she says, and they clink. “You're absolutely right. I'll drink to that.”

1Neither Angel nor Demon know that this _particular_ church plays host to a rather... _disgraced_ priest.

2The girls do charitable works on the weekends. It's all about balance.

3Michael will realise several weeks later that they both left without paying, and as the angel, pop back down to administer a quick miracle in recompense.

4Usually when he's not pulling his weight around the house.

5Intellectually he can see it. Practically, he has done pretty much the same thing with Crowley, and considers these last thirty five years the best of the lot.

6Close enough for discomfort, on the part of any observers. It's all a matter of perspective.


End file.
